


Grief

by Anonymous_Kumquat



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: 19th Century, Angst, Death, F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Historical Accuracy, Kidnapping, Mental Instability, Mild Language, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Sexism, Possessive Behavior, Psychological, Reader-Insert, Short, Sisters, Thriller, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2020-05-19 18:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19361860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Kumquat/pseuds/Anonymous_Kumquat
Summary: (Yandere!Ciel Phantomhive x Female Reader)You miss her. You miss her so much, and you have the chance to avenge her, but the consequences of your actions are greater than you gambled for...





	1. Stars, Hide Your Fires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read, be forewarned: there is some sexism (which does not reflect my beliefs, but merely the beliefs of the time period). There is also non-graphic murder.

“I wonder where she could be?” 

 

The palpitations of your heart rang in your ears. You compacted your form as much as possible behind the large rock. Adrenaline coursed through your veins. Would you be caught? The grass crunched and snapped under the footsteps of your pursuer. 

 

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

 

“It appears that there is no one here…” 

 

The tension in your body eased. Perfect! She would never find out where you were hiding. Pride filled you, just wait until you won! You were eager to gloat about your victory. You just had to wait for her to sullenly admit that you were too cleverly hidden for her to find you. 

 

“Found you,” spoke a voice from behind you. You startled, nearly screaming, but you were given no time to react. Fingers reached out to tickle you and you were overcome by uncontrollable laughter. 

 

“Stop it!” You giggled, writhing, vainly trying to slip away.

 

“Not until you admit defeat!” Rebutted your sister, snickering at your incapacitated state.

 

You proudly held your own for some time, but you eventually resigned.

 

“Alright, alright, you win!”

 

The assault halted, yet both of you continued giggling. You were slumped on the ground in an ungainly manner as you breathlessly pushed yourself up; your sister snorted. 

 

When the hilarity of the situation faded, your sister helped you up. You glanced at each other for a brief moment before laughter overcome the both of you once again. 

 

The two of you managed to calm down, and a relaxed silence settled after finding a tree to rest under. You gazed serenely at the long grasses swaying in the light breeze. The sun beamed brightly and intensely upon the fields around you. You shifted your gaze to Sister, contenting yourself with marveling at her. There was truly no one quite as beautiful to have ever graced the Earth. She was endowed with a charming face, and most stunningly, beautiful blue eyes. They were deeper and darker than the ocean by your family’s beachside house, reflecting the beauty of sapphires.

 

It was no wonder she had many admirers. Nevertheless, she never reciprocated the affections of any of them. _Does Sister love anyone?_

 

“Sister?” You asked quietly, attracting her attention, “is there anyone you love?”

 

A high heat formed on her cheeks, and she spoke in a lowered voice, “I will tell you, but you must promise not to tell anyone else.” 

 

You sat up, acutely interested and attempted to smother your sly smile, “I promise.”

 

Sister looked into the distance in the field of dancing grass, the flush growing hotter.

 

“There is a young man around my age…” she started, hesitantly, “who is quite…handsome…”

 

As she looked at you, she frowned sternly, “Hmph! Do you think I can’t hear your undignified sniggering?”

 

You apologized—not entirely sincerely—before goading her into continuing. 

 

“I quite like him, and I think he is taken with me as well.” Smiling sheepishly for a moment, she turned to you solemnly, “I would not tell this to anyone else except you, you are the only one I trust to tell this to. Please do not tell anyone else this either.”

 

“I swear not to. I would never betray you like that.” She smiled. 

 

“Of course not. I am blessed with the best sister ever,” She pulled you into an affectionate embrace. Her touch was calming, and her scent was pleasant. You could understand why any lucky suitor would fall for her charms. 

 

Eventually, she drew apart and helped you to your feet, brushing off the dirt clinging to your dress and straightening your appearance. 

  
“Come. Let us head back.” 

 

You trusted Sister and she trusted you.

 

—————

 

It was a bright and clear day. It was a day perfect for playing hide-and-seek or tag in the tall grasses, you thought, but Mother said otherwise. It is unbecoming of a lady of your age to be romping around like a boy, insisted she, sternly, needlework would do you some good. Needlework was fine, but on such a fine day, to not spend time outdoors in play was criminal! Needless to say, your mother didn’t agree with your sentiments. 

 

So you sat by the window overlooking the shimmering fields, mending a torn button on one of your dresses. Sister sat beside you, providing occasional guidance.

 

“Why so glum?” asked Sister kindly.

 

“Isn’t it such a beautiful day? Why are we sitting inside when we could be outside?” You sulked. 

 

She laughed and patted your head. “It seems you still have much to learn.” 

 

You turned to look at her, she had a mischievous smile on her lips. 

 

“Come, put down your sewing, let’s waste no more time on this right now.” You obliged. 

 

She took your hand, and opened the door, checking for any passersby. Cautiously she guided you down the various corridors of the large estate. 

 

“Won’t we be caught walking out?” You whispered quietly.

 

“Don’t be silly, we aren’t going out the front entrance.” 

 

She took you to a humbler door, in an area you hadn’t been before. These were apparently the servants’ areas and you mustn’t go in there, mother had said. 

 

“Our parents wouldn’t bother to watch for us here.” The two of you crept outside, “Come on, let’s go!” 

 

You both set off running and stifling laughter. It was thrilling to risk being caught. 

 

Sister was so much fun, and she was clever. 

 

_——————  
_

Sister was also kind and caring. 

 

At night, when concerns and fears plagued your mind, Sister would come and sit at your bedside, hold your hand in hers, and tell you stories of comfort to ease you into sleep. This routine became ritual, and one you looked forward to at the end of the day. You enjoyed staring at her blue eyes as they fondly observed you.

 

It was an aspiration of yours to follow in Sister’s footsteps as much as possible. She was a model lady of society. You took your studies in this manner seriously, admiring the fashions of ladies in ladies’ periodicals and dedicating yourself to the lessons in school. You mirrored her movements with precision, she said she found it cute. You couldn’t wait to be like Sister.

 

_——————  
_

The lonely figure of your sister was silhouetted against the window as she quietly weaved her needle. She looked a world unto herself.  


You smiled, “Sister, come and play with me!” 

 

She glanced at you, a tired look in her eyes, “Not now.”

 

“Please? Come on, play with me!” You pushed. 

 

“Not now, (Y/N), we both have more important things to be doing.” Before you could continue, she gathered her crocheting materials and walked out of the room with haste. 

  
Sister had been acting strange. Her usual warmth was subdued and a frigid air of seriousness had replaced it. Sister had retracted into somewhere where you could not reach her. She was somewhere beyond your reach. You missed her. Who would spin you stories at night to lull you into slumber? Who would you misbehave with? Who would you exchange gossip with? 

 

You had tried to pry the answer out of her, but she only reproached you for trying. It stung to have such loving eyes steel at you. The pillow collected your tears those nights. It always made you feel better though when she came in to kiss your cheek at night in an unspoken apology. She was still the sister you loved and cherished. Whatever secret she was drowning in, whatever secret was consuming her, you would be there for her. No matter how much she reproached you, you would wait for her. You would stay by her, and wait for the kind and mischievous sister you knew and loved to return. _Please, help my sister. Ease her and comfort her in whatever hardships she is enduring_ , you prayed. 

 

_Sister, where are you?_

 

Like all secrets, your sister’s could not be contained within the increasing pressure of its confines, and so it boiled over one fateful night. It was nearly time to retire. You had heard sister slip in through the door. Your parents were outraged at her absence, especially mother. You had never seen such bickering as what had happened that night between mother and sister. Sister had always been a good daughter, you had never seen her raise her voice so angrily at Mother. Her brazen actions reaped their consequences, however, and the angry red sting on her face showed it. Sister returned the hit with a look of death toward Mother before fleeing the scene. You had not missed the hurt expression and tears the welled in her eyes as she turned away. 

 

An uncomfortable feeling settled in your stomach and you found yourself no longer being able to savor the meal. You forced yourself to take small bites of your food, although each bite felt unpalatable. As soon as possible, you excused yourself from dinner.

 

Sister’s room had been left open a tad in her haste. From outside, you could hear her barely restrained sobs. You were scared, why was sister crying? Sister never cried. Sister was supposed to be happy…

  
“Sister,” you called softly to her, cracking open the door. 

 

She did not rebuff you this time. Sobs shook her body. She covered her face with her hands and hunched over in shame. 

 

“Oh, Sister,” your voice wavered. You rushed to her and sat beside her. You wrapped your arms around her tightly, resting your head on her shoulder. “What’s wrong? What is bothering you?” You asked. “Tell me what trouble has been ailing you.” You had told her such things times before, but now it looked like she would finally confide in you, and you could be the good sister to her that she had always been to you. 

 

“I loved him…” she said, “I loved him so much…” her voice was weak. She fell devastated onto your shoulder. Her sobs redoubled. “And he left me…” she trailed off, her voice dying out, “that’s what I meant to him. That’s all we meant to him!” She mourned.

 

You felt a frigid cold seep into you. “We? You don’t mean…”

 

“I fear…that…when that _bastard_ left me, it wasn’t just me he left behind,” confessed Sister hesitantly.

 

Dread settled over you. This couldn’t happen to Sister…that’s right, soon she would laugh at your troubled expression and gloat about how gullible you were. You waited, but there was no laughter, there was no affirmation that all of this was a joke. 

 

Men were supposed to be chivalrous caretakers. What man would have the wickedness to lure a lady with false hopes and promises? What vile beast lay in him to leave the beautiful heart of our sister shattered in pieces?

 

Sister pushed away from the embrace, gripping your shoulders: “(Y/N),”

 

You looked into her eyes, her previous weakness had been smothered, and from their ashes, flames burned instead. The tears continued to stream down her rosy cheeks. 

 

“Never entrust yourself to a man. All their promises, all their sweet words, all their loving gestures mean nothing to them even if they are the world to you… Do not believe their sweet words, no matter how much they promise you, do not believe them until they are cornered into following through with their promises. Promise me this!” _Trust me, Sister, I won’t ever be deceived…especially with a man like the one who had dared to defile you_.

 

“I promise.” You swore.

 

You addressed the looming question that had been troubling you, “What happens now? What will happen to you…your…” you trailed off. 

 

Her eyes were fearful now, “I don’t know…I…” she broke off. You didn’t like how unsure she looked. She reminded you of a small girl, defenseless and terrified. Nothing scared you more.

 

“Someone has to help me. They can’t just leave me and my baby,” her voice broke a bit, “Someone has to understand…” She looked you straight in the eye and seized your hands.

 

“Help me…please…”

 

What were you to do? Sister had never backed herself into any corner she couldn’t crawl out of. 

 

“Perhaps you could tell mother or father.” It was a statement, but it sounded more like a question. 

 

“Tell them, they must listen to you.” You pleaded. 

 

“Perhaps…” she took a breath, her frenzy and despair was starting to settle, “Perhaps…you’re right—that would be the best choice,” her eyes were still doe-like: round, wide, and unsure.

 

Sister smiled at you feebly, “You are the best sister I could ever have asked for.” She pulled you into a warm and loving embrace. “Please, whatever happens, keep out of trouble,” she murmured in your ear, “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you too.” 

 

With that, she neatened her face with her kerchief as much as possible, patted her hair and dress, and strode out of the room purposefully. 

 

_——————  
_

The next morning Sister had abruptly had her belongings packed and was on her way to your aunt’s secluded residence. You hardly had the time to hug her goodbye. A deep melancholy stirred in your heart when you embraced her. You felt a tight constriction in your throat and your nose and eyes burned. When both of you finally had to release each other, Sister wiped the tears from your face with her gloved hand.

 

“Don’t cry,” she smiled gently at you, caressing your cheek. “I promise to write. Can you promise me to do the same?” 

 

“Please don't leave,” you begged fruitlessly in some hope to change the inevitable, clutching onto the hand that tenderly stroked your cheek. 

 

“I’m afraid I must,” her smile fell, “but this is not farewell. We will definitely be reunited in the future, we will just have to wait a little while until we can. I promise.” 

 

That was a lie. That bitter and far too brief farewell was the last time you ever saw her. You corresponded with your sister until you stopped receiving replies. The news came in a letter from the aunt Sister had gone to stay with. She offered her condolences for her passing. Even in writing, her words dripped with insincerity. The only comfort you had was from knowing the cause of her death, and that wasn’t comforting in the slightest. There was nothing comforting in knowing the one that you had loved most in this world had died in agony from miscarriage. There was no amount of sincere condolences that could make up for the disparaging of a beautiful lady of dignity and respect by a man to whom she had meant nothing to, but to her meant the loss of a future. Nothing could make up for Sister’s premature death. Nothing. 

 

You kept all the components of her: her letters, her belongings, her clothing. If you couldn’t have the whole, you would treasure the parts, and maybe one day, that would be enough for you. 

 

_——————  
_

Gray tombstones lined the grassy field in tidy rows. Your eyes flickered to the one you were looking for. The name was coldly inscribed in the smooth stone. 

 

You had become the sole child of the family. You and your sister, well, _you_ being the only surviving children of all those your mother and father had conceived. Your family was riddled with the deaths of brothers and sisters who could not survive the perils of infancy.

 

Kneeling down, you dropped the tied nosegay of lilies by the grave. You turned away while taking steadying breaths. Melancholy tore at your heart, but there was nothing to weep over anymore, you told yourself.

 

You wished you could believe that. 

 

 _ _——————__  
  
April.

 

May.

 

June.

 

July. 

 

August.

 

September.

 

November.

 

December.

 

January.

 

Another year had gone by. 

 

Another year, it felt the same as any other year, any other month, any other day. You were tired. You wanted to rest: to sleep and not have to wake up.   
  
Your dreams kept you grounded. You dreamed of romping through grassy meadows. The grass was soft and ticklish against your feet. You held the warm hand of your sister.

 

 _Sister_ …

 

It was a misfortune you were not a boy, you overheard your parents say to each other, but you could still be used to extend your family lineage, mother said. If she marries into high nobility, you heard your mother propose. It could be done, your father responded, but we will need to begin her preparation immediately. 

 

Your parents did not skimp. You received the best tutors (ordinary school would not do, father said) in all the skills an attractive and well-off lady should be educated in: etiquette, languages, sewing, cooking, singing, instruments, etc. Learning was a welcome repast where you couldn’t be encumbered by emotions or thoughts of self. You asked to learn more. Your mother found your notions ridiculous, and told you such in the manner one might have when looking at an oddity. Gentlemen are not looking for a wife who will challenge him in politics or such, said she, scoffing at the idea. 

 

Life was cold, empty, and regimented. You yearned, yearned for warm fulfillment.

 

Everything felt as though a dream. You were the only one with your eyes open while everyone went through the motions unconscious, asleep. 

 

You never felt so hollow.

 

You craved warmth: the warmth of love, the warmth of companionship, the warming glow of happiness. Just a little, it was all you wanted, a smile or soft words of comfort, but there were only expectations (and discipline if they were not met). Your only contentment came at night when you could be at ease and hug your patchy doll. You called her Dolly.

 

“You’re the only who cares for me,” you wept to her.

 

No one smiled; no one cared. You pushed the hurt feeling away, and you imagined it growing a bit smaller every day. You imagined putting all your emotions in a box and pushing them out to sea. You practiced smothering them so they had no reign over you. 

 

You practiced your detachment until it became effortless to wear a stony exterior. It became easier to slowly shrink into yourself. It became easier to be the image your parents painted.

 

That was an important skill, for your behavior was observed at all waking times, and as such, you were expected to be on your best behavior. 

 

Sometimes you contemplated escaping out through the window with a few belongings and seeking a different life; a life of freedom. But your fantasies were always choked off, your reason would torture you with seeing the impracticalities and improbabilities riddled in the thought of escape.

 

You grew older, feeling alien in the strange world of shallow propriety and insincerity, isolated despite your numerous acquaintances, as you buried yourself deeper and deeper away. 

 

Then came your debutante, your introduction to the world. You were a lady now, and as such, you were expected to attend social functions chaperoned by your mother. One day, you would get married to a wealthy suitor, as per the wishes of your parents, and live the rest of your life in silent obedience to your husband. You didn’t feel anything about achieving your dreams of being a lady, only a heaviness; you only felt the weight of responsibility and inevitability and the emptiness of living a false life. Your life was written for you, and you had to follow the path. You couldn’t push away that weighty misery that wrapped around your shoulders at the thought of your life, weighing you down no matter how much you practiced.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I feel extremely nervous about posting this. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you like the story so far. I love feedback, so feel free to leave a comment!


	2. Let Not Light See

It was a soft and gentle evening. The night was still. The orchestra music wafted gently in the grand ballroom. Gentleman and ladies milled about seeking their partners before the commencement of the dance. Another one of the many balls your mother had accepted invitations for in your stead.

 

You sighed softly.

 

“Ms. (L/N),” called a soft voice that you instantly recognized as the lady of the house. She was a young and pretty miss with a soothing voice. 

 

“May I have the honor of acquainting you with Mr. Lynch?” You nodded politely and fixed your face into a demure smile.

 

“Ms. (L/N), it is my pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Lynch.”

 

Ah, Mr. Lynch, the man infamous for deflowering ladies and then abandoning them to be shunned by society, as well as a noted patron of bars. You had heard enough of the stories in ladies’ gossip. It was _just_ the company you desired, especially after…

 

You pushed the thought from your mind. You were incredulous that someone of his demeanor was invited to a ball. _They really are letting all types in, aren’t they?_

 

“Mr. Lynch, allow me to introduce Ms. (L/N).” You curtseyed. You wanted to shudder.

 

“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lynch.” He bowed in response.

 

The lady of the house left after assuring the two of you were agreeable company (you wouldn't dare act otherwise). 

 

Immediately after she had departed, he went straight to business, “Ms. 

(L/N), will you do me the honor of dancing with me?” 

 

_Curse him, that was the purpose of having the lady of the house introduce him, wasn’t it? I can’t lie and say I’m already engaged with another dance partner, it would be obvious I’m not._

 

“With pleasure, sir,” you replied. 

 

He made small talk during the dance, and you participated to the degree that you had to. The dance took far too long to end. After dance cards had been filled, you quickly excused yourself, bowing slightly, “I find myself rather peckish and must go to the supper-room, thank you for the dance,” 

 

He quickly interjected, “I shall escort you to the supper-room if it wouldn’t be any bother to you, miss.” 

 

“Oh, you needn’t escort me, I wouldn’t want to waste your time, sir.” You offered. 

 

He pressed on, “Nonsense, I insist.”

 

You smiled graciously and allowed him to lead you to the supper-room. You found his presence burdening, much preferring to be a wall-flower on your lonesome, as much as your mother would disprove of it. It would give you a moment of peace at least before she harassed you, or before some gentleman noticed. 

 

He escorted you to a seat, enquired upon your choice of food, and left to retrieve it. You released a quiet sigh, fiddling with your fingers. _I already have a headache from this whole ordeal._

 

The man eventually came back with your food and a glass of champagne for himself. He sat by you instead of standing, sipping his champagne. He talked of more trivial things with you as you progressed in your meal. He excused himself for another glass. When he went to retrieve you some jelly and trifle, he obtained another. _I never knew a man capable of making such poor decisions until now,_ you thought to yourself warily, _what is he thinking—drinking so much?_

 

The liquor certainly loosened his manner, and his tongue. 

 

He remarked, “Ms. (L/N), I don’t mean to offend, but you look quite beautiful tonight.”

 

You flushed from his little display, “I don’t believe this is appropriate,” you stated, hoping to steer the conversation towards safer waters.

 

“Nonsense,” he insisted. He looked deep in thought for a moment. “I recall you have a sister, I don’t believe I have seen her as of late.”

 

You had to suppress the onslaught of emotions that brought, “She caught a fever, she couldn’t handle the stress.” You replied, bluntly, leaving him to infer the rest.

 

“How tragic, my apologies,” he was nonchalant and acted as if he were merely talking about the weather. 

 

“It is truly a shame. She always was a bit reckless, albeit beautiful,” the man mumbled, sitting back in his seat, no longer looking at you. He talked as if he were talking to himself. 

 

Your blood ran cold at that comment. You said nothing and attempted to eat your trifle faster. 

 

He spoke again, so softly that you barely heard him, “She was so clingy though, wouldn’t accept that it was over between us.” He stared into remaining champagne left in his glass, frowning. 

 

Your heart stopped and you nearly dropped your eating utensil. 

 

“And look what happened to her,” he murmured to himself. He seemed completely unaware of you by now.

 

Lava flowed through your veins, you set down your utensils with shaky hands and forming your hands into fists on your lap. _This bastard…this bastard ruined Sister’s life._ You wanted to do many things—kick him, throw his drink in his face, hit him, _make him feel the pain Sister felt when he abandoned her_. But unless you wanted to suffer the consequences and tarnish your social reputation for life, you needed to keep your cool. You inhaled a slow and deep breath and then exhaled. You didn’t feel any less vengeful. 

 

“Pardon me, Mr. Lynch, but I must use the washroom.” He startled, looking at you as though you had crept up and surprised him. You bowed slightly, before hurrying off. 

  
You closed the door to the washroom behind you, dead bolting it. You stood in front of the sink, clawing at the counter. Your whole body shook. You let your head fall and grit your teeth to keep you from screaming. Fat tears welled in your eyes, bubbled over and streamed down your cheeks. 

 

_Damn him. Damn him. Damn him! DAMN HIM!_ You involuntarily let out a whimper. 

 

You would never forget what did to your sister, and by effect, you. He was a monster—a coldblooded, heartless monster. You wiped the tears from your face and stared into the mirror. Your face was fierce and murderous. 

 

You imagined him wiped from the face of the Earth. How much more of a pleasant place it would be…

 

_You twisted the blade into him, watched as he begged you for forgiveness, but you wouldn’t grant him mercy. The weight of his sins was far too heavy…_

 

You quickly wiped the thought from your mind, shaking your head. You sighed and assembled your face into a more pleasant expression. You smiled at yourself through the mirror, trying to make it look as natural as possible. 

 

You took another breath before stepping out into the lively party again. 

 

_——————  
_

You avoided Mr. Lynch throughout the remainder of the ball. You pestered your mother, begging to leave. It felt an eternity before you were permitted to leave with her.

 

When you got home you fled to your room immediately, dismissing your lady’s maid when she offered to help you change out of your formal attire. 

 

You collapsed on your bed, feeling immensely drained. You felt as though a lifetime of events had happened in the span of an evening. Your mind drifted to Mr. Lynch, and you could not suppress the flare of anger that surged through you upon the thought of him. 

 

_He was so close to you, you were alone. The blade felt natural in your hand._

_An itch that needed scratching, a longing desire, an empty yearning that needed filling._

_And then the blade, lodged in his body. Satisfaction, attainment, fulfillment._

 

Your nails dug into the material of your evening gloves. Your limbs ached with want of exertion. You no longer felt tired, quite the contrary, you felt restless with newfound energy.

 

You sat up from your bed and began pacing the length of your room. A walk would do you good, you decided. You called your lady’s maid, and asked her to help you change into your walking attire. 

 

She protested, “But miss, surely the mistress would not approve. Who will escort you? Besides, it is too late for a woman to be out.” 

 

“Mother doesn’t need to know about this. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”

 

She seemed unconvinced, so you shuffled through your coin purse.

 

You extrapolated a few shillings and placed it in the maid’s palm. “If she asks, I have fallen ill, and you are off to get my medicine.” 

 

She looked remarkably more assured, a small smile formed on her face as she hustled to your dresser. 

 

_——————  
_

You slipped out through the back door of the manor, the servants' entrance and exit. You never thought your mischievous and sly nature as a child would ever help you. 

 

You set off at a leisurely pace, trying to remain inconspicuous; after all, you had a no escort, nor should you ever be in the streets this late. The manor you were staying at this season was not a far distance from the city. It was a place you normally avoided, but something drew you to it this particular night. It was a nice area, away from the slums. The night was cool, the cold sting against your face was refreshing. You felt you were able to cast aside everything that had happened and exist as you were on this night. You increased to a brisk pace, enjoying the pumping of your heart as your feet carried you through the streets. Your mind was blissfully blank. 

 

Accidentally brushing against a man, you murmured an apology in a low voice, not faltering. 

 

“(Y/N)?” It was the voice of none other than Mr. Lynch, addressing you with an uncomfortable amount of familiarity. He sounded intoxicated. You weren’t the only one who left a bit early. _He just can’t abstain from alcohol, can he?_ The peaceful tranquility you had felt earlier shattered to grating irritation and rage. You paused only briefly in surprise, before setting off once more at a quicker pace. Your efforts were in vain, though, for he grasped your wrist tightly. You twisted your arm around, trying to shake him off, but his grip was unwavering.

 

“Where ‘re you going?” He slurred, “stay with me.” He looked so genuine, and it would have been almost comical how exaggerated his facial expressions had you not hated him so much or been in the position you were. 

 

“Keep me company,” he whined like a child and tugged you along with him. Panicking, you began to scream. His reflexes were uncannily sharp though, and he tugged you toward him swiftly covering your mouth with an uncomfortable grip with his other hand. The hand holding your arm moved to your waist, keeping you from wriggling free. He pulled you with him into a narrow alleyway, conveniently deserted. 

 

For someone drunk, he was acting remarkably sharp.

 

“What ‘re you doing?” He asked sounding mildly panicked and angry. His breath smelled like alcohol as well. 

 

You gripped the hand silencing your screams tightly trying to tear it away from you.

 

“Come on, don’t be that way,” he said, clearly struggling with enunciation. He pulled you deeper into the shadows of the alley. You released muffled shrieks as you were pulled back by his grasp with him. 

 

Hidden further in the shadows, he clutched you closer to him, breathing into your hair. 

 

“You’re so lovely,” he murmured. His grip loosened as he rested his head against yours. 

 

_He begged at your feet, begged you to spare him, but his grating cries were silenced by the blade. You spared the world of his existence; he deserved it._

 

You closed your eyes and took a breath to clear your mind before taking action. You seized the opportunity of his slackened grip to propel yourself out of his grasp and take off into a run. Your boots crunched on the shards of glass that littered the alley. He let out a strange frightened sound and grabbed your wrist once more, and pulled you towards him. Once more, he acted with frighteningly fast reflexes for a man that was intoxicated. 

 

You pivoted on your heel, running on heightened energy from adrenaline, and gave him a hard shove. He was propelled back into the brick wall. His head bore the brunt of the impact with a dull thud. He moaned in pain, clutching his head tight with his hands, his legs stumbling to stabilize himself.

 

You could have turned and run away, left him there in pain. You could have.

_You gave him pain, the pain he gave to your sister, to you. You made him feel the pain of all his transgressions in detail, feel the disgustingness of his being. You gave him the justice he deserved, the justice he was long overdue._

 

_…_

 

_You picked up a shard of glass you were standing on, the sound of your heart reverberated in your ears, it was all you could hear. The next thing you knew, the shard was thrust into his abdomen. You twisted it harshly. If he made any sounds, you didn’t hear them. You were underwater, submerged, in another world._

 

_“You didn’t even care about her,” you spoke coldly, you didn’t recognize your voice._

 

_“She was just another girl, wasn’t she? Just another life to ruin, just anotherlife to destroy.” Your voice was shaking, you didn’t know why. Maybe it was because there were large tears streaming down your face. You pulled the glass out in a sharp motion._

 

_He let out a gasping sound; you startled backwards, alarmed by his sound._

 

_You dropped the glass you were holding, the shard you had just stabbed a man with. Your palm felt wet. You looked at your hands, feeling the suffocating fear. You were bleeding from your palm, and you didn’t even feel the pain…just the wetness._

 

_Then you felt a sudden mental acuity, as though you had been smothered in a haze and just now you could think clear. You watched as he collapsed again the brick wall. It was then everything came to you. You had just stabbed a man._

 

… 

_Oh my God!_ You gasped and backed away further. 

 

_ No, no, no, no, no, no! _

 

This wasn't happening. 

 

It was a dream, an illusion; it wasn't real.

 

You closed your eyes, waiting to wake up, pinching the flesh on your arm.

 

_ Wake up! Wake up! _

 

When you opened your eyes, you were still there. Still in the alleyway, still with the bleeding man...

 

You actually did this…this was your doing!

 

_No._

 

You reached out to touch the bleeding man. You could feel the texture of his clothes in detail far too precise for a dream.

 

_ This...this must be real. _

 

You sharply drew back. 

 

You had never known fear as intimately as you did then and there. 

 

_Y_ _ou_ were going to be blamed for this. _You_ were going to be imprisoned for retribution if you were caught. You had to get out of here, _now_. You made the motion to run, but--

 

_If he lives, he will tell the police it was me._  This was too much.You wanted to be at home. You felt helpless, weak. 

 

But it was too late to turn back. Now that you had taken this path, you knew you had to commit. You had to make sure he would be dead by the time anyone had time to get to him. _It’s the only way to protect myself._

 

…

Lynch was retching on the ground, but you were positive that you were the one that felt sicker. 

 

_No, I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to--_

 

You took in a slow breath and released it. 

 

_I have to do this…if I don’t…He could survive, I will be imprisoned, locked away to rot in a cell until the end of time._ Your stomach turned. 

 

You positioned yourself beside and slightly behind the man who was struggling to his knees (“Hot…it’s hot…” he groaned). _This can’t be happening…this can’t be happening…_

 

You reprimanded yourself, _This IS happening, get a hold of yourself, you can’t allow him to escape._

 

_He can’t be allowed to escape._

 

You felt queasy. You placed the glass shard by the side of his neck, gingerly. You wanted to retch onto the floor as well, you didn’t want to look at him in the state he was in. It was one thing to act on the impulse of sheer emotion, to knowingly do it…

 

_I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared. Scared._

 

_Scared._

 

_Scared._

 

You pushed the shard into his neck, with an unsteady grip and a trembling hand. 

 

_Scared._

 

_I’m scared. This is wrong. This is so wrong. I can’t do this._

 

_I can't stop, not now_. You eased the glass in further and further. He was bleeding. It was red. Red. Red. So red. Your mouth tasted of bile so you turned your head to look away. Working up a shaky breath, you sharply pushed the glass into his neck, hurried along by his struggles. You fiercely pulled it out, and threw it against the opposite wall, jumping away from him. 

 

He was making pained noises, frightening noises. You couldn't stand it, couldn't stand facing what you had done...

 

You turned away and fled. You felt wrong, so wrong, and if anyone saw you…

 

You walked as fast as you could out of the alleyway. You walked as fast as you could down the eerily vacant side-street. You had just stabbed _—_ no— _killed_ someone. If he wasn't already, you were sure he would be soon. 

 

Suddenly, nothing became as important as getting away from the alley you had emerged from. You ran faster.

 

It was only when you were far away when the exhaustion caught up to you. You stopped and leaned against the wall of a building. You began to become aware of the sweat on your forehead, the raggedness of your breathing.

 

You focused on leveling your breath, trying to push away the coursing fear. Everything felt so surreal, you felt as though you would awaken at any moment, startled and frightened, but safe and innocent. The whole world was watching you, with its sharp eyes, silently judging your actions. You were a spectacle being observed, being jeered at by the whispering walls, the gas lamps, the dark windows.  

 

No, you wanted them to stop looking at you. _Stop, don't look at me. Stop!_

 

You set off in a sprint, trying to run away from the eyes. You wanted to escape the eyes, the harsh and discerning eyes.

 

Faster.

 

Faster.

 

Faster.

 

You were flying down the street, running so fast, you felt your heart might have burst. You would do anything to get away. Anything...

 

It felt an eternity before you finally reached your family’s estate, out of breath and with burning muscles. It was miraculous; you felt at any moment, you would be ambushed from the shadows by people who had witnessed your crime. You spent some moments beside the servants’ door, taking slow breaths to slow your breathing. Your heart, however, refused to slow.

 

Feeling as ready as ever, you slipped through the door and stealthily crept to your room. Inside, you paced back and forth. _I shouldn’t have done that_ , you cursed at the small part of you that felt satisfaction, _I shouldn’t have killed that man. I shouldn’t have…now I won’t ever be able to live the same._ The guilt overtook you, only rivaled by regret. You wished life would pause, that you wouldn’t have to eventually wake up to the consequences of your actions. You wished you could undo your sin.

 

_Some rest would do me good,_ you thought to yourself and summoned your maid to prepare you for sleep. 

 

Upon arriving, she looked at you concerned, and then her eyes fell to your palm and she gasped. 

 

“Miss, you’re hand…its…”

 

You looked down at your bloodied palm and suddenly you noticed the pain. It stung, it hurt, it hurt so much. You wanted to scream, the blood was scaring you.

 

“Miss, come with me, please,” she said, still sounding shocked, “let’s take care of your injury, just follow me please.”

 

_——————  
_

You stared down at the cloth wrapped around your palm as you were undressed. 

 

“I don’t mean to speak out of place, miss,” your maid interjected timidly, you looked at her.

 

“But don’t worry about your hand,” she turned a bit red, “my mum taught me how to do that, and it has always worked well in helping cuts heal.”

  
She looked like she wanted to say more, but stopped herself. While untying your bustle, she mustered up the courage to voice her thoughts, “Miss, I don’t mean to overstep my position, but you look unwell, what happened?"

 

_She knows_ , you panicked to yourself, _she knows, she is going to talk, she is—_

 

_No, she doesn’t know anything. Just stay calm…._

 

You smiled at her, “I know you mean kindly, but…I would rather not talk about it,” 

 

She nodded sympathetically, “Apologies for asking, miss.”

 

_——————  
_

You laid in your bed, far from drowsy. You tossed and turned. Terrifying visions of being imprisoned in a rat-infested, dirty cell for the rest of your life. Visions of standing on the trap, the hangman putting the noose around your neck, waiting for the trap to slide from under your feet. Waiting…

 

You startled awake from your brief doze. _It was only a dream_ , you tried to soothe yourself, but you felt no more easy awake than you did in your dreams. You squeezed Dolly tighter to you, you didn’t have the heart nor the desire to get rid of your old childhood memento. 

 

“Oh Dolly,” you sighed, “what will I do?” 

 

You turned over again. _I feel as though I will never sleep again._

 

The time stretched by slowly, as you laid in your bed, anxiously waiting. You waited an eternity for something to happen to you, muscles tensed. You stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. Waiting.

 

But, eventually, you succumbed to sleep. Your alert and agitated mind surrendered to your drowsy, aching eyes, and you uneasily drifted into a troubled sleep. 


	3. My Black and Deep Desires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the long story short is that Grief is going to take more chapters than anticipated to keep the chapters at a reasonable length (both for me and you) and also because I don't want to rush the pacing. If I tried to cram it into two chapters, it would be ridiculously bloated. Frankly, it already was when I first published it. I put the first chapter (as it was originally when I first published it) and it said that with the average reading speed, it would take somewhere around 30 or 17 minutes to read. That would be well and fine in a real book, but since this is online, that was a ridiculous amount of time.
> 
> So, from now on, I am going to be making shorter chapters. I already split the first part into two chapters. I don't know how many more chapters Grief is going to take, but I expect at least 2 more. 
> 
> Additionally, I am just leaving the titles as chapter 1, chapter 2, etc. because I had a scheme for naming my chapters, but now I will have to rethink it since I am going to write more chapters than I thought. 
> 
> Just a note, everyone has been really kind and no one has pressured me at all, but I just want to emphasize that these chapters do take time because I do a lot research and I revise and work over my writing a lot. I want this to be as believable as possible and enjoyable to read and to do so requires a lot of mulling over in my brain.

“Good morning, miss.”

 

You were vaguely aware of a tray being set down on the nightstand beside your bed. “Your tea, miss.”

 

You recalled a biting anxiety and a deep sense of dread, but you could not recall why, nor were you all that concerned. In the present, you felt immensely peaceful, and the stress of the past felt like a distant memory.

 

The sun streamed in through the cracks in the curtains. You sat up, groggily. It was another morning, a morning just the same as any other.

 

Then, your memories flooded back: Mr. Lynch, the shard of glass, _the blood, his choked cries._

 

You flung yourself out of bed and dashed to the bathroom. You couldn’t contain yourself as youvomited into the gilded china water closet, feeling as though you had been walloped in the stomach.

 

You could hear the maid somewhere in the distance say something, but could not bring yourself to care enough to discern what she was saying. Besides, you weren’t in any fit state to respond.

 

 _I…I killed a man_. _Now…now what will become of me? The police are bound to investigate…and what if he is still alive? What if they manage to revive him and he reveals it was me?_ Your heart was beating fast, so fast, and you felt light-headed. _Even if he is not alive, what if they still manage to find out? Will I hang like Mary Ann Barry in agony for a long three minutes suffocating to death?_

 

You were feeling very dizzy.

 

 _Even if I manage to make it away, I will be chased after for the rest of my life. Where will I go? How will I support myself?_ Your mouth trembled, and your eyes were damp. _What if…what if I have to sell my body to support myself? Running from place to place, at the whims of men until I am old, and then abandoned?_

 

You burst into hysterical tears. All the worrying, all the stress, it was draining. The facade you had worked so hard to built was crumbling from its foundations. You have never felt so weak and helpless before, except…

 

No.

 

Thinking about… _that_ …being consumed by it…it was what got you into your current predicament.

 

 _Why did this have to happen to me? Why couldn’t I have just run away and left him there? What did I do to deserve this?_ You cried as though a child.

 

“Miss, are you alright?” The maid was by your side. She looked frantic and confused. “Miss, let me help you up. She supported you as you bawled, leading you over to the bed. She sat you down offering you one of your handkerchiefs. You accepted it, tidying your mouth, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

 

Her face was strained and bewildered. “I…I will alert the mistress,” she offered a hasty curtsy before scurrying out of the room.

After some time, your mother, stern-faced and in her dressing gown rushed into the room followed by the maid.

 

“What are you doing, child? Do you wish to be heard by everyone?”

 

Her words had no effect on your hysterical state.

 

“Fetch the smelling salts,” ordered mother, and the maid hurried off to comply. 

 

Your mother made her way over to your bed, sitting on it hesitantly. She delicately held your hand and patted it, the discomfort evident.

 

When the maid came back with the vinaigrette box, your mother took it and opened the lid under your nose.

 

Eventually, your hysteria quieted to sniffles and the stray tears.

 

“You should not strain your constitution anymore,” said your mother, setting the vinaigrette box aside, “why don’t you rest?”

 

You agreed. You needed time to think, time to yourself.

 

The two exited and you were left by your lonesome.

 

You slid out of the bed and rinsed your face, eyes, and mouth. Upon feeling sufficiently cleaner, you began to pace around anxiously.

 

 _I’m a murderer…These hands…_ You stared at your hands: the bandaged palm, the gentle almond-shaped curve of your filed nails… _they’re the hands of a murderer._

 

You continued to pace the length of the room.

 

_I killed a man…I killed a man…and for what? The life of a man in exchange for a lifetime of remorse?_

 

However, you could not help the insidious thought the overtook your mind. _You enjoyed it. You enjoyed killing him, making him meet the end he deserved. Don’t deny it._

 

_I enjoyed it?_

 

_…_

 

 _No—_ you pushed aside the thought forcefully. _No. It was wrong…he didn’t deserve to die. No one deserves that._

 

_It was wrong. But…I don’t want to die either._

 

_I really don’t want to die._

 

_I’ll…I’ll have to play innocent. I don’t want to, but unless I want to be hanged…_

 

A sick feeling twisted itself in your gut, and you weren’t quite sure whether it was from your heart and manner being discordant or from the thought of being hanged.

 

It felt as though two factions of your mind were warring with each other, and the chaos was causing you to split in two.

 

You looked in the mirror; your face was abnormally pale, and you had dark patches under your eyes. Quite simply, you looked dreadful.

 

 _Please, God, if you exist, help me get through this,_ you prayed.

 

_Please…_

 

————

 

“Sir, a letter from Sir Henry Ponsonby,” announced the darkly clad butler.

 

“Ponsonby…isn’t he Her Majesty’s secretary?” Asked the blue-haired nobleman looking up from the multitude of letters he had been sifting through.

 

“You’re quite right, I wonder what Her Majesty is so eager to tell you.” Remarked the butler idly.

 

“Another case likely.”

 

Having completed his task, the butler dropped a bow before exiting the room.

 

There was a peaceful silence as Phantomhive read the letter; it was quite the tranquil morning, or it was, at least, in the library of the city flat.

 

_Another murder._

 

This time it was a man by the name of Lynch, and his case was quite troubling. _Well, if it wasn’t significant I wouldn’t be given it,_ he mused to himself.

 

He sighed setting down the letter. Apparently, there was great concern among the higher-ups of foreign involvement with gangs. _I suppose they made a deal for a contract-kill._

 

 _It would be troubling if his death is indeed foreign sabotage._ Phantomhive moved to rest his head on his hand. _I wonder why he is such an important figure._ _I never did get much detail on his line of work, and the queen doesn’t seem all too keen on telling me._

 

He thought idly for some time before ringing for service.

 

“Sebastian, get me dressed; I am going out.”

 

It was time to see what information the police had. That is, if they knew anything at all. _Those fools hardly get anything done anyway._

 

————

 

It was the season of fog in London once more. It had rolled over the streets in a thick, blurry haze. It was in this condition that a coach rolled up on the streets and Mr. Phantomhive stepped out, and after a brief exchange with the coachman, entered the police headquarters.

 

“Mr. Randall, a Mr. Phantomhive would like to urgently talk with you.”

 

Randall didn’t seem very much inclined to talk with Mr. Phantomhive, but reluctantly obliged.

 

“We meet again, Mr, Randall,”

“What is it you’re doing here? What do you need with the Yard?” replied the other curtly.

 

“Quite simply, I am taking charge of the investigation into the murder of a man called John Lynch.”

 

“Under what authority?” Replied Randall, taken aback.

 

Phantomhive took out a slip of paper, waving it around nonchalantly before reading it, “Earl of Phantomhive is to be granted full access to police resources, manpower, and aide to investigate the death of Mr. John Lynch. He is to be granted full custody and control of the case. Signed, The Viscount Llandlaff of the Home Secretary.” The nobleman glanced back up at the chief inspector, “Is the authority of the Home Secretary good enough for you, Mr. Randall?”

 

“The Home Secretary?!” The man snatched the paper from the hands of Phantomhive and scrutinized it as if searching for some mistake: some evidence of forgery. However, he found none and reluctantly handed it back.

 

“What is happening? What does the death of an inconspicuous man have to do with the Home Secretary?” He clearly smelled something suspicious afoot.

 

“I’m afraid that information is not for you to hear.” Replied the nobleman, not sounding remorseful in the slightest.

 

“You intend to keep the Yard in the dark while you conduct your foul business with its resources?!”

 

“Precisely, I’m so glad you understand your place,” said Phantomhive, smiling in a patronizing manner,

 

Randall had an unpleasant scowl on his face, but recognized his lack of control in the situation, “If I had any decent say in the matter, you would not be here.”

 

“Most unfortunately for you, you have no substantial decision in the matter,” quipped Mr. Phantomhive in return, “now, let us stop wasting time on trifle. What is it that the Yard already knows?”

 

Randall reluctantly handed the other a photograph of the crime scene.

 

The murdered man was slumped against the brick wall. Blood was visible, from the photograph, on the side of the neck.

 

“He was found by a young woman early this morning on Brown Street. She was rather hysterical, but we did manage to get something out of her: she found him already dead, it would appear. Naturally, we plan to have the body examined by a surgeon.

 

“You should already know that we only discovered the body very recently, and as such, we have very little information at this point.”

“What are your plans to investigate?” Asked Phantomhive.

 

“Well, the most important affair, as aforementioned, is to have the body examined by a surgeon, which will bring more light upon the situation. We also plan to retrace his steps to reconstruct who he was with and what he was doing prior to his death. Moreover, we intend to seek out any witnesses, although, civilian statements can only be taken with the validity of a grain of salt..”

 

“Very well,” concluded Phantomhive, “but the Yard needn’t do anything. I will take care of everything myself. I only request that you archive any evidence and have your people determine anything that can be deduced. I would also like the surgeon’s input on it as well.”

 

“What?!"

 

“You heard me perfectly fine; I am to take full custody of this case. I don’t want you or your men to interfere unless I tell you otherwise.” He retrieved the paper again as if to back the validity of his demand, “I am perfectly within my permissions to do so.”

 

“You’re telling the Yard to sit quietly and complacently back from our own case?!” Demanded Randall, clearly infuriated.

“That’s right. I find the Yard’s tactics unnecessarily tedious and slow. My tactics and sources are far more efficient and effective.”

“And I find your methods to be underhanded and despicable.”

“I suppose that makes the both of us. Write to me when your surgeon has finished his examination, I should like to speak to him.”

 

No good-bys were given, nor was any love lost upon Phantomhive’s departure.

 

…

 

Randall stared vacantly at his desk, retreating into deep thought. A deep-set unpleasant expression settled on his face.

 

He quite dreaded having to cede control of the case and allow that despicable Phantomhive to trample degradingly all-over him and the Yard. It was nothing new, but humiliating nonetheless. He and his people would be made a public mockery of, and Randall got the distinct feeling that the nobleman would silently enjoy the ridicule thrown towards the Yard by the newspapers and magazines.

 

Phantomhive. Oh, how Randall loathed him. He was the antithesis of righteousness, an annoyance, and an evil equivalent to those he sought to uncover.

 

That was far from the worst part of him. No, the worst part was the distinct feeling Randall got that one day he would surpass and become even more dangerous than those he exterminated. One day, he would become the very threat to Her Majesty that he was tasked to deal with. One day, he would be the one causing harm to innocents. Well, that is, if he wasn’t already. 

 

That was a day Mr. Randall sincerely hoped would never happen.

————————

 

Before returning to his flat in the city, Phantomhive made a quick detour by Brown Street. The fog had grown heavier by now and pressed thickly against the cobbled street.

 

 _An alleyway,_ it was the same alleyway he recognized from the crime scene photograph.

 

The heavy fog gave a supernatural, mystical air to the whole scene. _Supernatural. I’ve had more than enough experience with that._

 

He surveyed the area. Shops lined the street on either side of the alley. _Dry goods, hats, cigars, a club._

 

Any traces or residue from the crime had already been scrubbed away.

 

It was then that Phantomhive became aware of the bustling people that walked by; far from deterring passersby, the murder drew a sensational crowd of people to the normally clean and quiet district. He scoffed at the throng like the pretentious prick he was, and feeling that he had seen enough, re-entered the cab.

 

—————————

 

Arriving at his flat brought the noble great ease: away from the bustle of people. Phantomhive was quite ready for this season to be over: quite ready to not be in such head-ache inducing close quarters with the rest society.

 

He sat idly at the secretary as he thought about his plans before ringing for the butler.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Sebastian, there is something I want you to do for a case.”

 

 

————————

 

You spent the next few days bed-ridden with illness, noticing the slow degradation of your health along with your appearance that accompanied long and sleepless nights. Any sleep you did get was punctured with startling nightmares.

 

When you felt clear-headed and guiltless enough to reflect upon your experience, you were sure that your newfound sleeplessness did not aide your mood swings, nor your bouts of hysteria.

 

Your worried mother called a physician who assured her that you were merely suffering from female hysteria. He prescribed laudanum as a relaxant. Nonetheless, you refused to take it. You had heard enough hushed gossip about the strange behaviors of the most reasonable men and women who used the cursed mixture.

 

A focused mind to be the greatest relief from the ever-present guilt and worry that plagued you, you found. _It is far more effective than laudanum will ever be, at least_ , you thought. An unoccupied mind drove you hysterical, so you kept up with the periodicals and filled your mind with the words of an assortment of authors.

 

When you saw the murder of Mr. Lynch in the headline one day, you felt a strange mixture of relief and dread.

 

The secret was no more. Your days of anxious anticipation could come to an end.

 

Therein lay your troubles. There would inevitably be an investigation if there wasn’t one already underway.

 

But…

 

They had no reason to suspect you. You were sure you didn’t leave anything incriminating behind.

 

You set aside the periodical, filled with its sensational and fictitious theories.

 

You envisioned the alleyway where everything took place. A flare of emotion ran through you, but you attempted to think with a clear mind.

 

 _Was there anything there that could pinpoint you?_

 

 _The glass!_

 

Panic surged through you. That’s right, you cut yourself with the glass didn’t you?

 

You looked down at your bandaged palm. _But…that blood could’ve been anyone’s…_ You still felt sick to the stomach.

 

 _I can’t be caught with that_ , you tried to reassure yourself. _I will get through this trying time, and I will be glad when it is all behind me._

 

_I can get through this._

 

…

 

_Right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Water closet= what people used to refer to toilets as in the 19th century. The word "toilet" at the time meant a washstand or dresser. 
> 
> * Brown Street is fictitious and doesn't exist in England in real life. 
> 
> * Ciel Phantomhive's status really confuses me. In English nobility (at least at the time) you would be the Earl of some place. For example, Earl of Essex. Saying "Earl of Phantomhive" sounds so awful, but I wanted to retain his title. 
> 
> * Laudanum= An alcoholic substance containing and prepared from opium. It was used as the 19th-century aspirin: a pain killer and a relaxant. It was very popular and could be bought from a drug store.
> 
> * Despite what Black Butler says, opium and addictive substances were NOT illegal and went very much unregulated until the early 20th century. In fact, they used to even give babies mixtures of cocaine and other drugs to calm them down. The 20th century was when doctors discovered that addiction was a thing that existed and that it was problematic. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you liked this part. Feel free to leave me feedback, as always. I only ask that, if you want to suggest improvements, that you leave constructive criticism and not hate. Everyone has been super kind, but I just thought I should say that just in case. 
> 
> If you like Victorian crime/mystery, please leave advice and feedback. I could really use the help.


	4. The Eye Wink at the Hand

It was a new week, and for Phantomhive, a week he was determined to get somewhere on his case. 

 

“Mr. Phantomhive, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Kipling,” spoke Randall.

 

“Mr. Kipling, allow me to present to you Mr. Phantomhive.”

 

The nobleman shook hands with the doctor.

 

“Mr. Randall, your presence will not be needed,” stated the nobleman callously.

 

The police chief reluctantly left, irritation etched on his face. 

 

“Now that that is taken care of…”

 

“What have you been able to learn, Mr. Kipling?”

 

“Well, the most notable details on the body were the wounds on the abdomen and down the side of the neck,” explained the doctor, “the wound on his abdomen was quite shallow, causing no trauma to the organs, so I don’t suspect it could have been the cause of death. I believe the cause of death is blood loss from the cut on the neck.

 

“Stiffness had already set in, and that leads me to believe he had been dead for a good number of hours before being found. The absence of body heat and pale, bloodless appearance also lend credence to that theory.” Concluded the doctor.

 

“What about the murder weapon?”

 

“Oh yes, I believe that he was murdered with a shard of broken glass, given that a bloodied piece of it was found. I suspect though, that the murderer may have cut himself in the process as there is blood on both ends of the glass.”

 

“Can any information about the murderer be gleaned from what you have learned?” Asked Phantomhive.

 

The doctor looked thoughtful for a moment.

 

“It would have to be a more feeble fellow. Neither cut was particularly deep.”

 

The nobleman envisioned the assailant. It then dawned on him that, perhaps, they weren’t looking at all the possibilities. 

 

“Theoretically, Mr. Kipling, is it possible that the murderer could have been a woman?”

 

He thought for a second before answering, “Well, yes, I suppose.” His eyebrows creased into a distasteful look. “The feebleness of the wounds could be explained by such.”

 

“Well, thank you, Mr. Kipling. This has been most enlightening.”

The men shook hands once more, and the nobleman went on his way. 

 

_This murder doesn’t sound very well-planned at all. After all, glass isn’t an ideal murder weapon, nor is it an efficient one. I have a hard time believing this could have been planned sabotage._

 

The day was lively with the sounds of the city: horseshoes clattered, newsboys cried themselves hoarse, vendors were peddling their goods, people were bustling about.

 

 _I’ll wait to see what more can be found before making any decisions_ , he decided as the cab drew through the city.

 

* * *

Phantomhive retreated to his study as soon as he arrived at the flat.

 

No sooner had he committed himself to work, when there was a rapping on the door.

 

“What is it?” Asked the nobleman, “I did not call for service. Do you have something regarding Lynch’s murderer?”

 

“Yes, sir,” came the response.

 

“Very well, come in.”

 

The door opened and the butler entered with a piece of paper. 

  
“I have compiled a list of Mr. Tennyson’s activities the week before and the day of the murder,” explained the man, handing the papers to his master. 

 

“Additionally, I have made note of those that he interacted with immediately prior to his death.” He handed the neatly rolled paper over to the nobleman.

 

The nobleman was silent for a period of time as he surveyed the new information before he spoke.

 

“He was at his club immediately before the murder…” He recalled the club on the street where the murder took place.

 

 “We should speak with his acquaintances at his club. They would’ve likely been his last contacts…” He trailed off. _I wonder which group did away with him…They’re all nuisances, but if they sent one of their underlings to do their dirty work, catching the man would not solve the murder, but it would not put an end to our problems…_

 

 

“Sir, you may leave the interrogation to me. You need not take up any of your time with such trivialities.”

 

“Yes…yes, that would be most convenient. Anyway, if you have nothing else, you are dismissed.”

 

The butler gave a slight bow before returning to his duties. 

 

…

 

It didn’t take long for the butler to complete his tasks.

 

“What did you find out?”

 

“Most of the gentlemen knew of nothing, and I had no reason to suspect they were lying.”

 

“Well, is that it?” 

 

“It would seem so, sir.”

 

There was a pause as Phantomhive scrutinized the demon before berating him, “Damned demon, I know you’re withholding something! I order you to tell me everything you know!”

 

“Very well, sir. I did learn something interesting: one man reckoned he had seen Lynch with a woman but admitted he was not paying all too much attention to him.”

 

_A woman?_

 

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me earlier?!”

 

The butler smiled politely, “In all honesty, sir, you know I am here for my own gain. One day, I will consume your soul, but until then I seek to entertain myself as much as possible.” 

 

“What is so bloody interesting about keeping vital information from me?”

“I want to see how you fare in figuring out the clues yourself.” 

 

His master sent him a withering look but remained focused. 

 

_That lines up perfectly with the assessment of the murderer…it’s too coincidental for it not to be related to that._

 

“Could he recall what she looked like?”

 

“Not too well, only that she looked a respectable young woman and well-off.”

 

_Perhaps she is an acquaintance of Lynch’s…that would make sense. It is quite suspicious: her being with him so close to his murder. Whoever she is, she is our primary suspect so far._

 

_I should get in touch with some contacts to look for leads into female gang members. After all, the main suspicion so far is that there was a deal between foreign governments and a gang, and it is most important to determine whether there is a correlation. Though…I can’t imagine why a well-off woman would be involved in gang activity._

 

“I want you to look into any female acquaintances of Lynch’s and report back to me when you have all the information.” 

 

The butler idled.

 

“Now get out of here!” 

 

The butler’s smile grew, “Yes, sir.”

 

At last, the butler had gone and peace and silence filled the room once more. 

 

_Lau would have some information about gang activity…at least in the East End. He would be a good point of contact. Browning, as well. He has been very useful many a time. Their services would be helpful in drawing information from…less savory sorts of people._

  
He sighed. _There is much work to be done. But then again, when is there not?_

  
  


* * *

You were feeling significantly better each day. The guilt that sickened you became manageable enough to not interfere with your day-to-day life, and you were glad to be back in the rush of ordinary life. 

 

The real upward turning point for you came from visiting acquaintances and rekindling friendships. You had never known another’s company to be so pleasurable, and you almost felt joyful when your acquaintances came calling on Sunday. When normally it would be tiring to see visitor upon visitor for the majority of the day, it enlivened you, and you were positive it was a major contributing factor to your recovery. 

  
But you remembered most vividly one day in particular that changed everything for you. 

 

It was a sunny and bright day; it was the kind of day that was perfect for a walk outside. You had decided to call on an acquaintance, and there was mutual agreement that to stay inside on the a day such as that was criminal. 

 

It was peaceful to walk together and idly chat about sundry topics. The weather was ideal as your parasol protected from the excess heat of the sun. 

 

While walking along a less-traveled path, the two of you found a secluded corner with a little bench that was perfect for resting upon. It truly did seem like the perfect escape: large bushes and clusters of flowers bloomed, the scent of the flowers perfumed the air, and there was a quiet stillness. It truly was the perfect hidden escape.

 

“Did you hear about the murder of John Lynch?” Asked your companion idly. She rested her head sluggishly on your shoulder, fanning herself.

 

Your body instinctively chilled and there was a nervous prickle on the back of your neck.

 

“Yes, it is most unfortunate,” you said, forcing nonchalance into your voice, “he was a rather crude man though.”

 

Your friend sighed, “Yes, he was, wasn’t he?”

 

There was a casual silence in which you counted the beats of your racing heart.

 

“I suppose I should feel bad about his passing, but I can only feel relief,” confessed your friend, “He was so unpleasant; especially with his habit of seducing women; he had no regard for their marital state and his advances were most unwelcome. His manner was quite coarse as well.”

 

You were intrigued. _She seems to be relieved at his passing._

 

“What do you think about the murderer?” You ventured to ask.

 

She laughed lightly and closed her eyes. “Between you and me,” she said quietly, “I have half the mind to thank him, and I am certain I am not alone in my sentiments. ”

 

And then there was silence once more, but your heartbeat eased and you no longer felt nervous. You were quite certain that your friend had dozed off on your shoulder, as the hand holding her fan had drooped by her side.

_What if murdering—no—that’s too harsh a word._

 

A butterfly drifted across your gaze and you turned your head to watch it land on a flower and beat its wings lazily. 

 

_What if…eliminating—yes, that is better—what if eliminating Lynch was a necessary evil: a necessary evil for the common wellbeing._

 

You observed the slack, relaxed expression on your friend’s face as she continued to doze. 

 

_A necessary evil that allows everyone to breathe a little easier._

 

_…_

 

 _I shouldn’t be thinking that,_ you shook your head, trying to rid yourself of the thought, but it persisted.

 

_He was a nuisance. Thanks to him, you no longer have the one you love with you. Thanks to him, many women have had their hearts broken. And thanks to his death, society can breathe easier, whether people admit it or not, they secretly think that as well._

 

 

And you could not suppress your fascination with the idea: the fantasy of being a modern-day, female Robin-hood. 

 

_…_

 

One day, you found a letter one morning that you did not recognize to be from any of your acquaintances. 

 

You turned it over to find the sender to be a Mr. Phantomhive.

 

_I wonder who that could be…_

 

* * *

This was somewhere Ciel Phantomhive had hoped not to step foot in again. Unfortunately, he was left with no other options.

 

Entering, he coughed at the thick smokey haze. He would have to make this quick in order to avoid triggering his asthma too much. 

 

The same horror scene lay before him: the scattered array of people in the cramped space slumped disorderly about the floor and on mattresses. It still took Phantomhive aback to see the variety of people laying about, and many with respectable backgrounds: young girls that looked of only six and ten or seven and ten years of age in their Sunday best, boys of around the same age, respectable men, poor men, affluent women. 

 

He tore his eyes away from the scene and searched out the one he was looking for, wishing he could’ve gotten Sebastian to go instead. He covered his mouth and nose to the best he could, for all the good it did him. He coughed again; the haze was overwhelming. 

 

“Lau,” called the nobleman, spotting who he was looking for as he weaved his way through the pell-mell of dazed people. 

 

Lau sat on a bench, far more acute than the people around him, far too acute for someone inhaling opium. Ran-Mao lay across his lap, and deliriously, Phantomhive was reminded of a lady with her pet dog on her lap. 

 

“Oh? What brings the Guard Dog here unaccompanied?” Asked the man.

 

Phantomhive narrowed his eyes, “There is something I want you to do.”

  
  


* * *

“Ms. (L/N),” greeted a blue-haired nobleman, “Please, sit down.”

 

You complied. He was looking through various papers. 

 

There were teacup and various snacks befitting of afternoon tea spread among the table. 

 

Your heart beat loudly in your ears. _Calm down. As far as they could know, I am innocent._

 

There was the hot feeling of nervousness that made your heart quiver, but beneath all that was a feeling of calm assuredness. Somehow, you felt powerful and in your element; it was as though you really were innocent, and there was an intoxicating feeling of justice and righteousness you had in yourself.

 

The nobleman tore himself away from his papers and looked you straight in the eye. 

 

That was when you felt that your heart stopped.

 

Your blood ran cold.

 

Your breathing hitched.

 

_No, it can’t be…_

 

But it was. He had eyes that—in every way—resembled that of your deceased sister. 

  
They were beautiful eyes, just as your sisters.

 

You were shaken out of your reverie by the darkly dressed butler that you didn’t even notice was there pouring tea into your cup. 

 

Your heart beat again.

 

The cold chill that overtook you thawed.

 

You breathed again.

 

You were a bit embarrassed that you let your emotions run you, but it seemed that the noble across from you was just as spacey.

 

His eyes were wide open, as though you had sprouted another appendage and his face looked somewhat heated. 

 

He quickly snapped back to his senses as well, “My apologies,” spoke the nobleman, brushing aside the previous incident, “We have called you here to ask you about the tragic death of Mr. Lynch, as stated in the letter.”

 

Your heart beat faster.

 

“You have my full assurance that it is not my intention to interrogate you, I only wish to learn more about the circumstances of his death. Any information you can provide—no matter how seemingly trivial it may be—could be key in solving this mystery.”

 

He glanced at the assortment of sandwiches, scones, and biscuits, “Please help yourself to them. There is cream and sugar for your tea as well,” he motioned toward the cream pitcher and the sugar bowl. Cubes of sugar were neatly piled in the bowl.

 

The nobleman drank from his own teacup, prolonging the silence. Not wanting to wait uncomfortably, you folded back your gloves and took a biscuit and scone for yourself. 

 

The nobleman finished with put down his cup of tea back in its saucer and proceeded to ask you questions. 

 

“Now, how well were you acquainted with Mr. Lynch?”

  
His eyes drifted to your bandaged palm while speaking. You wanted to pull your hand away, but that would only look more suspicious.

 

 _I am a suspect; I can feel it instinctually,_ and your instincts were always to be trusted. 

 

You ran your words carefully over in your head, “I only made his acquaintance a few days ago at Mrs. Katherine Godwin’s ball. We danced and he kept me company while I dined, that was the extent of our interaction.”

 

“Was that the last time you saw Mr. Lynch?”

 

You involuntarily hesitated before answering, “Yes…I only saw him at the ball. After that I didn’t see him again.”

 

God, you _hated_ the probing look in his eyes. It was bad enough, that he bore so much resemblance to your deceased sister, but you were fighting with yourself not to look away or fidget in your seat. You only hoped you looked as serene as you were trying to appear. 

 

“What happened after the ball?”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand…”

“My apologies, allow me to rephrase the question: what did you do after the ball?”

“I returned home with my mother and retired early, as I wasn’t feeling well.”

 

“I see,” answered your interrogator, looking down briefly at your palm again.

 

…

  
He asked you many questions, and you answered them. Despite the seemingly innocent front of what he asked, you could not help but feel a sinister undercurrent to everything. 

 

You felt as though he was trying to split you in half and glimpse at your darkest secrets.

 

Perhaps you were being dramatic, you considered. But either way, Mr. Phantomhive was dangerous, and you wouldn’t underestimate that. Your insecurity was not aided by the fact that you had no idea what the Yard knew, or how much they knew. 

 

You would have to be more cautious, that was for sure, but besides that, you were not sure there was much else you could do. 

  
  


* * *

“I have a suspicious feeling about her,” Phantomhive said to his butler after you had left. 

 

“I want you to keep watch of her, Sebastian,” spoke Phantomhive, eyeing the butler suspiciously. 

 

“Yes, sir.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to trust with that…” Phantomhive trailed off, coming to some sort of realization, “Oh, and I order you to tell me everything this time.”

 

“Very well, sir,” replied Sebastian.

 

 _I can’t believe I didn’t think of that earlier. What a waste of time,_ Phantomhive thought to himself sullenly. 

 

 _What happened to me earlier?_ He recalled the sudden flush in his cheeks and the warmth in his chest. _Whatever it was, I don’t like it; it is so troublesome._

 

Ciel Phantomhive may have been bright in other fields, but it appeared he was abnormally obtuse in the realm of emotions. 

 

He remembered feeling those strange emotions when he looked at you. Your fixed expression…

 

The familiar burning sensation in cheeks flared again, and the strange feeling in his chest arose again. Hurriedly, he forced the emotions aside. 

 

“Sir, would you like me to invite in the next person?” Asked the butler, puzzling over the strange   new flavor he was getting from his master’s soul.

Phantomhive snapped to his senses, and obliged.

 

 _Goodness, what a nuisance._ Not only were the strange emotions troublesome, but they were distracting as well. 

  
  


* * *

Ciel Phantomhive was restless with obvious irritation. Despite all the resources he had at his fingertips, he, so far, had little to no leads. Lau could find no information in the realm of gangs or any other organized crime for that matter. The assessment from the doctor only marginally helped narrow down the possibilities. The Yard had limited evidence, and what they did have was much to go off. 

 

The only person-of-interest he did have to go off of was you.

 

 _No,_ he tried to rebuke the warm feeling in his chest. Regaining calm, he sighed.

 

Ciel Phantomhive remembered with full detail the moment he swore off the world. 

 

He remembered pleading for someone, anyone to save him. He remembered the moment his innocence was crushed, and the cold, bitter hate that followed. It was the very hate that had sustained him from then on. It was the hate that gave reason for the blood to pump through his arteries. The hate that made his heart beat. The hate that kept him alive. 

 

He remembered swearing off love.

 

But…

 

 _This feeling,_ he thought to himself, _it’s driving me up the wall!_  

 

He slammed the fountain pen down on his desk and restlessly began to pace around the room. 

 

Ciel Phantomhive was not supposed to feel this way, and he was loathe to admit that it scared him to find these feelings inside him. 

 

He hated how your face swam up to his mind whenever he was trying to focus. He hated the nervous feeling that distracted him from going about his business. He hated the hot, burning sensation on his face when he thought back to you. He hated how he was losing his senses over something—someone—that he should have no concern for. 

 

The only part that was worse than the feeling itself was having no control over it, and _that_ was something that Ciel Phantomhive absolutely detested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, writing mystery/detective stories is clearly not my strong suit, lol. I will probably go back and revise this whole story after it's finished. 
> 
> Only two more chapters left (I think)! :-(


	5. Yet Let That Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally updated this thing. Luckily I had most of it already pre-written since the summer or I would've probably updated in August or something.

It was indeed the case that Phantomhive was exceptionally dull in matters relating to emotion, and if there was any doubt before, it became clear with the arising of these new and foreign emotions. 

 

It was easy to ignore at first.

 

The first symptoms were pangs in the stomach and the telltale swelling of the heart. Feverishly, he wondered if he was suffering some illness. As much as he would loathe to admit it, the idea inspired fear in him. He still had so much unfinished work to be completed; he had not yet fulfilled his sole ambition of obtaining personal revenge! 

 

Ciel Phantomhive’s fear of succumbing to consumption or some other illness proved to be unfounded, though the realization did not bring him any more reassurance.

 

Perhaps, then, time would quell the feelings, Phantomhive decided.  But, time, instead of the soothing ease for the unwanted feelings, served as pyre for the fierce combustion in his heart. The trouble with fire was the cool sweat experienced from the melting of the icy fortifications he so depended on to alienate himself. 

  
“Good morning, sir.”

 

The butler set the tray by the bedside and drew the curtains open as his master stirred.

 

_Smoke had begun to fill his mind; the perfume of irrationality spread to fill every crevice of his head and by then, the process was beyond help or hope of control. Though, it never was a process that he had any jurisdiction over to begin with._

 

He sipped at the tea in a half-conscious trance. Even the liquid calm could not douse the fluttering feeling in his stomach, nor the yearning pangs of his heart.

 

_It must be what dying was: uncontrollable, painful, and inevitable. The smokey haze choked his sanity and suffocated reason. New thoughts drunken on the odious haze invaded his mind, replacing the rationality he was losing._

 

The china cup quivered in his grasp.

 

_And the most terrifying feeling was the desperation he could feel rising from the dredges of where he had abandoned it. It was a desperate longing of a different kind, but still familiar enough that it brought back ill-remembered memories._

  
In a manner much amok, the cup fell from the noble’s unstable grasp. It lay intact on the blue carpet in a ring of its spilled contents.

 

“Are you alright, sir?” 

 

The butler picked up the cup and set it on the silver tray once more. 

 

“Oh dear, that might leave a stain. I suppose I should send Mey-Rin to clean it.”

 

“Spare me the details, just make sure it is dealt with,” ordered the noble recovering from the shock spell. 

 

_His head was reeling._

 

“Get me the newspapers,” demanded the master to the servant. His feet incessantly jittered under the dining table.   

 

If he filled his mind with words, he might return to sanity. For some time, it did bring peace. But there was only so much to read, and there is only so long one can sit and occupy themselves with a single task, and as he finally set it down, it became clear that the semblance of soundness he sought in the mind was fleeting. The intruding thoughts were once more emblazoned in his mind. _The last vestiges of cold reason choked in the thick smoke._

 

Now was as good a time as ever to deal with the mail, the noble declared to himself. 

 

_Sentences tangled discordantly and then split apart in the maddening pink and red haze that occupied his head. Images of a face…your face was the only clear and discernible thoughts in the fog that filled his head._

 

 _Smack_! Abruptly he slammed his fist down on the desk. His face burned with humiliation. He spared a glance towards the clock; ten minutes has passed in which he had read the same letter and absorbed nothing. 

 

He sighed. 

 

He put a hand on his heated face. He must be catching some infirmity of the mind. It was a most frightening proposition, as it was the one thing he should be able to steel control over. 

 

Though, he most certainly didn’t _feel_ deranged, and if nothing else, Phantomhive had absolute certainty and trust in himself. 

 

…

 

_Tick tock._

 

_Tick tock._

 

_Tick tock._

 

There was silence filled only by the twitching of the tiny hands of the portable clock on his desk. 

 

Phantomhive watched as the minutes sifted by in an idle stupor. Work proved to be fruitless, and so he abandoned trying. 

 

In a dark corner of his mind, a wish for counsel and guidance, all that his independence forbid him from ever seeking. 

 

In matters of interpersonal relationships and in love, simply put, Phantomhive was a booby. Even young naïve youths with their heads full of fancies could recognise the signs a furlong away. The most obtuse people would know it even if it cloaked itself in a disguise, and yet, the supposedly bright nobleman could not make heads or tails of the emotion. 

 

Despite thinking he had the world figured out, perhaps he was the dimmest of all (as only the foolish would think such things). And so, he suffered as the only thing that causes more suffering than ignorance is denial and refusal, and he was culpable of all three.

 

But there is only so much one can handle, and given Phantomhive’s impatience, it was very little. Enough was enough, he decided, and in a flurry of emotion found himself walking through the streets without direction or purpose. 

 

Why was he feeling this way?

 

Clouds blocked the sun casting a cool grey over all. 

 

It was always you that his manic thoughts spun up. Did he hate you? Then why did he not feel the steely cold fury? Were you a witch that cast some strange spell to addle his mind? Were you—

 

And suddenly, everything clicked together. 

 

The overcast subsided and the sun poured down again. 

 

This was wrong, he protested to himself, Ciel Phantomhive wasn’t supposed to feel this way. 

 

Ciel Phantomhive wasn’t supposed to fall in love. 

 

Now more than ever did he wish he had never met you. He wished he had sent Sebastian instead.

 

But it was already done, and it couldn’t be changed. Now he needed to think of how he was going to regain control.

 

_What is it I want?_

 

The answer felt clearer than ever. 

 

_If I get what I…what I want…will I be satisfied? Will this awful feeling stop pestering me if I do as it says?_

 

_…_

 

 _How troublesome._ He sighed. _This is just more work for me, but if it will make this feeling go away, if I can finally regain focus, then I suppose it is an inconvenience I must undergo._

 

Faint wisps of morality whispered their qualms from the inky blackness. He almost entertained them, almost felt some feeling of repentance…

 

They were quickly quashed and sent back into the tar-like sludge they came from. 

 

There was no need for their useless thoughts. After all, God had abandoned him and let his innocent happiness wither and die. If that was what morality, goodness, and kind-heartedness would lead him to: ruin and destruction; then he was better off without such useless trifles. 

 

* * *

Sebastian was perplexed: never would he have expected that his master would have been prone to such human weakness. But, as he had always maintained, humans were so unpredictable, and his current master was perhaps the most unpredictable one he had ever met. 

  
The demon was most distraught the meal he had worked so hard to season and shape had begun to turn sour. Most fortunately, the bitter phase was only for a brief amount of time before it morphed into something far less unsavoury. 

 

He could only puzzle over how unexpected the turn of events was. You were nothing extremely interesting. Your grief and smothered anger did lend an appealing scent, but your excessive melancholy gave him an expired taste in his mouth.

 

Oh well. There was no need to ponder over such insignificant things. He had a far more interesting scenario unfurling before him: the fast approaching and inevitable confrontation between you, the guilty, and his master. 

 

Of course there was no foreign sabotage; the whole scenario was merely a series of coincidences. Sebastian supposed though that he shouldn’t be surprised: human ignorance and imperceptiveness was always something that knew no boundaries. There were far cleaner methods of eliminating such a person of interest without the spilling of blood all over the streets, and without clumsy evidence planted everywhere. Anyone could sense the desperation and unplanned nature of the crime.

 

The butler rapped at the door to his master’s study. 

 

“Enter.”

 

The demon opened the door to admit himself in.

“Sir, pardon my intrusion, but I have completed my investigation of the suspect, and I believe the information may be of interest to you.”

 

“Let’s hear it then; spit it out.”

 

Regardless of how the act played out, Sebastian was sure that he would enjoy its unravelling. 

  
  


* * *

You had an ominous feeling about the letter addressed to you that came in the mail; you were especially wary after taking note of its sender: the Earl of Phantomhive. He clearly had some important part in the investigation—to what extent you did not know.

  
You faintly worried that you might never resurface if you complied with his written “invitation”. It was no invitation; it was a demand, and one that you had to accept. He _invited_ you to his manor, and no further details were disclosed other than to “come unaccompanied” for your own “best interest”. A coach would come by in the early afternoon of the given date.

 

Your mother could see no disadvantages to being in the company of so prestigious a family name. Naturally, you did not see eye-to-eye on the matter, but you deemed it best not to tell her the reason why.

 

In that moment, the strong notion to run away had struck you, for you were most certain that you were deemed to be guilty by the investigator, and it was only through your own indecision that you found yourself waking up that day in the same bed as ever. 

 

Would you be smuggled into prison? Burned at stake?

 

Perchance all your unease was your own imagination upbraiding you. For all you knew, the invite was only for more polite questioning.

 

As you were dressed that day and as you nervously peered out the window for the arrival of the coach, you felt most uneasily that you were preparing for your own death. You couldn’t be certain what sentences you condemned yourself to; you only hoped for your sensibility and instinct to navigate you safely out of harm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever look at a person and wonder, "what is going on inside their head?" Me neither.
> 
> consumption= tuberculosis 
> 
> furlong= 660 feet/201.168 metres
> 
> booby= a stupid person/an idiot.
> 
> You know I had to include "spit it out" in here somewhere! I can't wait until it's release tomorrow, April 23! It sounds a bit like the unpopular comeback Señorita (which happens to be my favourite song). They have a very different sound it seems, but I think that it's the sudden drumming and then the silence that sounds like the castanets in Señorita, or rather Senorita (they forgot the tilde in the title). My favorite line is "sin prisa, pero sin pausa" and the "yayaya" in the background.
> 
> The melodrama is palpable in this chapter.


End file.
